ice blue
by clairebare
Summary: a new case for jane proves almost too interesting.
1. Chapter 1

I am lying with my eyes closed on my couch at the FBI.

Lisbon is hard at work doing The New York Times Crossword Puzzle online. They get progressively tougher as the week goes on and it's Thursday. She calls out to me, "Genealogical giants, seven letters?"

"Mormons," I call back. She looks at me askance. I say, "It's a fascinating fact that the Mormons—"

Lisbon cuts me off. "I'm sure it is Jane. Tell me later. I think I just figured out the top right." She figured it out? She's now muttering to herself. "If 12-down is Mormons, then 17-across is monarchy and 23-across is rodomontade." I see the top of her shiny little head bent avidly to the screen as her fingers dance across the keyboard.

I'm proud of her. I was worried that she would agree to take on the paperwork generated by our cases, but instead she leaves it to Kim, who appears to revel in that sort of thing.

So this afternoon, both of us are lounging here in the bullpen while the rest of the FBI marches in lockstep with the rulebook.

"Hello, Teresa." The soothing French accent is like fingernails across the blackboard of my mind. I open my eyes to see Teresa give Thierry Delhomme her widest smile.

"Thierry, I have a clue I've been saving for you." He leans over her and looks at the screen. She points. "Town that gave the world les blue jeans, five letters?" She looks up at him fetchingly. He opens his mouth to answer.

"Nîmes!" I call out. "Denim is a material created in Nîmes, France. Hence, Bleu de Nîmes."

They look at me as if I've just tried to cut in on the dance floor. During their first dance at their wedding.

"Bleu de Nîmes. Very good, Patrick," Thierry says with only a quart or two of condescension. They both look back at the screen. If he leaned over just a half inch more, his aristocratic snout would be nesting in her hair.

"Anybody want a cup of tea?" I stand. They're enthralled by 107-across. I head off for the break room.

Thierry Delhomme from Washington DC by way of Paris is here consulting for the FBI on anti-terrorism ideational polyhedral kvork framis.

Thierry skied for the French Olympic Team. Thierry recently returned from a journalism assignment on behalf of the New Yorker for which he was embedded with the troops in Iraq for four months. Thierry has a degree in Latin from Oxford and a master's degree in economics from Princeton. Thierry is a published poet and a photographer of some note. Thierry's family owns half of Bordeaux. Thierry is 6'1" and built like an Olympic skier with thick wavy auburn hair and pale hazel eyes.

Patrick Jane is an idiot.

I think my window with Teresa may have closed. It was only a twelve-year window. Why so hasty, Lisbon?

Guess what? With its international prestige and unlimited resources, the FBI provides a steady stream of hot and cold-running prince-like men. Far more than Sacramento did.

And Lisbon is a superstar here. With a kick-ass nationally known reputation and a bitchin' bod to go with it.

Me? I'm the man who escorted Teresa Lisbon to Austin. And while Thierry has a good shot at her, he's only one of the living gods sniffing around her daily.

I have to tell her soon. On the off chance that my loving her would cut any ice.

Cho is suddenly there as Cho often suddenly is.

"Jane, there's a woman downstairs in the lobby who wants to see you."

I ask, "Did she say what it's about?"

Cho says, "She'll only talk to you."

I head for the elevators. Cho follows

She's standing with her back turned when we reach the lobby.

She's tall and very slender. Pale pale blond hair worn straight to her shoulders. Her outfit is something you might see when Kate Middleton attends Ascot. Fitted ice blue shift with a matching coachman's coat. She carries a small clutch purse.

"You wanted to see me?" She turns. You would think it was Grace Kelly or Catherine Deneuve or Ingrid Bergman when they were Lisbon's age. She looks terrified.

I extend my hand. "Patrick Jane."

She stares at my hand like she's afraid to touch it.

She fortifies herself with a deep breath and shakes my hand.

"Megan. Megan McAllister. Tom's wife."


	2. Chapter 2

Megan McAllister. Tom's wife. Red John's wife. I don't move. I don't let go of her hand.

Cho's hand hovers over his gun.

"I haven't come for revenge if that's what you're thinking, Mr. Jane," she says. I detect a slight Irish accent and something I can't identify.

"The truth is, you're the only one I can trust." She drops my hand and walks quickly to the exit. I follow her. Cho follows me.

She sits down on one of the benches in the stone moonscape that forms the grounds of the FBI headquarters.

Across the plaza, Lisbon strolls by with another Adonis, Ahmet Patel. Unlike Thierry, this prince is actually a prince. From a royal family of India. Ahmet gives her a daisy. Fuck me.

Megan's eyes dart to Cho. "He's OK, Megan, you can talk." I assure her. Cho takes his hand away from his gun and stands with his arms folded.

I look at her for a few seconds. Scared. Comes from a poor background. Poorly educated. The youngest of many siblings. Got lost in the pack. Father died early. All her ladylike graces were acquired long after childhood. Profoundly lonely. A bit of a masochist. A mother. A mother?

I lean forward. "Tell me."

"My name is Megan Duffy Tremblay. I live in Geneva, Switzerland with my six-year-old daughter, Charlotte."

Her daughter's name is Charlotte.

"I am a widow. I only discovered this recently." She sits very straight. Her back doesn't touch the bench.

"Tom McAllister has been dead since-"

"Yes, I know. Since right after I saw my husband for the last time. Two years ago, he left home on one of his frequent business trips and never came back. I've been searching for him ever since."

"But there was a lot of coverage in the media back then." I take inventory of her accessories. No rings. No watch. No jewelry at all.

She rolls her eyes at me. "The Swiss police have apprehended two serial killers in the last two years, Mr. Jane. Have you seen pictures of them? Would you know their names? I was looking for Tom Tremblay."

She has a point there. "So how did you find out about your husband?" Her eyes go from ice blue to crushed blueberry.

She pulls a magazine article out of her little purse. It's a long and excellent piece the New Yorker did on Red John. There's a picture of him, one of Lisbon and one of me. "Someone put it in a red envelope and gave it to my daughter to bring home from school."

"Well that was very cruel," I say. She snorts bitterly. I killed this woman's husband. Strangled him to death. Why is she here?

She pulls out her iPhone and hands it to me. I scroll through the pictures there. A classically turned out girl of about six cavorts in a park. The time-stamp on the photos show they were taken on different days. Each day, a different color pleated skirt and matching sweater.

As I look at the photos in sequence, I notice that someone has tucked several roses into the vine-covered wall behind her. More roses every day. First the eyes and mouth. Then the circle. Eventually they form a smiley face.

"I take pictures of Charlotte in the park every day. I didn't notice the roses until the face was complete. What do you think it means, Mr. Jane?" she asks.

"Nothing good, Megan." I hand her back her iPhone. "Why didn't you go to the Geneva police?"

"So Charlotte would be revealed as Red John's child? So I would be known as the monster's widow? And how could I know that anyone in law enforcement was safe?"

She grasps my shoulder. "You killed to avenge your family. You were willing to go to prison. You were deceived and tortured to make you abandon your pursuit. And in the end, you stopped a serial killer. You dismantled the Blake association. You had to give up your life in the U.S."

She's trembling. "When I look at you, I see the man who killed my Tom. Only my Tom didn't really exist."

"I believe that…Tom McAllister's…murderer is the only man I know who has the brains to help me and the honor to protect me."

Whoa. If this woman is playing me, she is very very good.


	3. Chapter 3

"The only man who has enough honor to protect her?" Lisbon rolls her eyes as she places the daisy Ahmet gave her in a bud vase on her desk.

"Why? I have honor, Lisbon." I'm hurt. I'm sure Thierry and Ahmet have enough honor for her. I flop onto my couch facing the back.

"Not saying you don't. It's just…well…I was sort of buying it until she said that." Lisbon perches on the arm of my couch and pokes my back. "Don't you think she was laying it on a little thick?"

"You weren't there, Lisbon. You were busy frolicking with Ahmet." I feel her shift uncomfortably. Bullseye. I continue. "And what's going to happen when Thierry finds out?"

"That's right, Jane. I wasn't there in person gazing into her…how did you describe them? Crushed blueberry eyes? She slides her little rear off my couch and sashays it back to her desk.

I call out, "What did you think, Cho?"

"Hell of a good-looking woman."

Teresa snarks. "I rest my case."

Cho's a fucking traitor. I bury my nose in the seam between the back of the couch and the seat. I hear Teresa walk back.

"What do you wanna do, Jane?" I flip over on my back. She looks down at me and continues, "The FBI might be interested in-"

"Let's keep the FBI out of this, right now, Lisbon. If she's legit, she has reason to fear law enforcement."

Cho says, "Yeah, and if she's not legit, she has reason to fear law enforcement."

I sit up. "First we need info on Tom and Megan Tremblay."

Lisbon says, "Maybe Wylie Coyote could-"

"No outsiders," I cut in. "This is a job for Van Pelt."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The hotel suite is airy and elegant.

I can hear the sound of a child laughing in the other room.

Sitting on the curved loveseat with her bare feet tucked under her and her pale blonde hair up in a French twist, Megan Tremblay (or McAllister) is channeling the early astronauts' wives in a sleeveless shell and narrow pants both in cornflower blue. Silk faille, I think they call it.

Lisbon looks her over deciphering some female code from her choice of clothes and hairstyle and perfume. Megan wears Zeste de Rose, one of my favorites. Rose and lime. It shouldn't work but it does.

Lisbon wears Eau D'Hadrien. Citrus with something underneath that reminds me of the Paris metro. In the nicest way possible. Really. I would like to put my nose behind Lisbon's ear and keep it there.

"So Megan, you were a stewardess for Air France before you met your husband?" Lisbon pulls up a chair close to the sofa.

"Actually I met my husband while I worked for Air France. He took a flight from Dublin to Paris every week or so. After a while, you get to know all the business customers. You know what they drink, how many pillows they want."

"So he asked you out, made a pass?" I say.

"No. He was always very appropriate. Not like some of the men. Never drank too much. Always impeccably dressed. Quite formal. At Christmas, it was not uncommon for regular passengers to give us small gifts. As he left the plane on Christmas Eve, he gave me a small orange box tied with a brown ribbon. Later when I opened it, I saw it was a silver Hermes pen. That's when I knew that he liked me."

"Very elegant. Very refined and subdued and expensive. Doesn't sound much like a sheriff from Napa." I say.

"I didn't marry a sheriff from Napa, Mr. Jane."

Lisbon picks it up. "So after he gave you the pen, you started dating?"

"No. I wasn't interested in him in that way. He was twenty years older and really quite intimidating. Especially to someone like me. He suggested dinner but I told him I was seeing someone. He was perfectly kind and I never felt uncomfortable about it."

"So what made you change your mind, Megan?" Lisbon leans forward in her seat.

For the first time, Megan looks flustered. She leans over and pours herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the end table.

"When I joined Air France, I was this little Irish girl hoping to see the world. I didn't want to be flying back and forth from Dublin to Paris for my whole career. I put in for a longer haul assignment. They're not easy to get. But finally I was given a place on a Paris to Singapore flight."

She takes a gulp of water. I don't think she's thirsty. She just doesn't want to continue.

"And then what, Megan?" Lisbon speaks very gently.

"I was happy. I loved being in such an exotic place. The other flight attendants knew all the good places to go. And they took me with them. "

She's biting her lip. She's about to say something that's very painful for her.

I kneel down next to her. "Just tell me. It'll be OK."

"One evening when I got off the plane with my flight bag, the Singapore police stopped me. They searched my bag. They found cocaine. I don't use cocaine. It wasn't mine."

She tears up. I hand her my handkerchief.

"I was put in jail. It was awful. I was thrown into a large cell with twenty women. No one spoke English. It was loud and cold and unsanitary. I was so terrified. I just stood with my face to the wall with my fingers in my ears. I just stood there. For two nights."

Lisbon says, "Just tell us what happened, Megan, and we can stop."

"On the second morning, guards came and took me out. Brought me into a waiting room. Tom was there. In his elegant suit, holding my travel bag. My legs wouldn't hold me. He supported me and took me out. There was a car and driver waiting. He explained that there were no criminal charges. I could return to my job. He brought me to a hotel. I had a beautiful room. I tried to wash, to change my clothes but I couldn't. I was broken. I couldn't stand myself. Couldn't stand my thoughts. I was so ashamed."

"Megan, you know it made sense for you to be upset, don't you?" I say. She isn't hearing me."

"Tom wasn't ashamed of me. He was wonderful. So patient. He brought me to a place in Switzerland. In Geneva. A sanitarium. I stayed there for six months. He came to visit me whenever he could. I came to depend on him."

Lisbon and I exchange glances.

" Two weeks after I was released, we were married."


	4. Chapter 4

Megan mutters something about getting a tissue and leaves the living room.

"Jane, do you think she knows?" Lisbon knits her brow.

"If she didn't, she does now," I reply. "That seems to have been Red John's no-fail method of picking up women. Ruin their lives and come to their rescue. The classic arsonist/fireman routine."

I wonder who is menacing her and her child and why? What do they want? Well, as the wise and lovely Lisbon always says, follow the money.

The door to the living room opens and Megan walks in. She's put her polished surface back in place.

I ask, "Megan, can you give us an idea of your financial situation?"

Megan sits on the sofa. "We were very comfortable. Our house in Geneva is on the lake. Tom liked me to dress a certain way and would have clothes sent over so I never had to go to a store. He bought me expensive jewelry. He spent money on art. Our house was filled with paintings and sculpture. I had a cook and a gardener and a maid."

"He took great pride in Charlotte. She attended the best private schools. She had music lessons and ballet and tutors in French and Italian. She's a very bright little girl. By her I.Q., brighter than any child in her school. She could read when she was three."

"But I'm babbling," Megan says. "That's not what you're asking."

She looks down at the crumpled tissue in her hands. "After I found out about Tom…about what he'd done, I stopped using the money from our accounts. I felt like it was blood money. I've been selling off my jewelry and things from our home to support Charlotte and myself. I know it was all bought with Tom's money but-"

"Megan, how much is in the accounts?" Lisbon interrupts.

"Twelve million dollars." She looks confused and guilty. "What should I do?"

Lisbon replies, "You're doing fine, Megan. Right now we're wondering whether someone might be trying to frighten you in order to get their hands on that money."

She rubs her eyes with her fists and sits very still. She takes a deep breath and removes her hands. She whispers, "Kidnappers, a ransom?"

"That's a possible scenario," I say.

Megan gasps and clutches Lisbon's hand.

Lisbon says, "Jane!"

I stand and rock on my heels with my hands in my pockets. "Possible but unlikely. No, Megan, whoever's doing this is doing it for very personal reasons. I guess I shouldn't bother to ask you if Tom ever did anything to piss someone off."

Agent Lisbon is now holding a weepy Megan while looking daggers at me.

"Mommy?" This must be Charlotte. Looks like a mini-Megan. She runs to her mother and puts her arms around her. "Why are you crying?"

Megan composes herself. "Nothing, darling. I just heard a sad story. I'm fine now."

Still hugging Megan, Charlotte peeks at Lisbon and me with dark blue wary eyes. Any kid, especially a bright girl would be rattled by being plucked out of school in Switzerland and planted in a hotel room in Austin with her anxious mom.

"Charlotte, this is Agent Teresa Lisbon and this is Patrick Jane," Megan says. "We came here to Austin to meet them."

"Do you remember the red envelope you brought to your mom?" I ask. The poor kid buries her head in her mother's neck. "Charlotte, do you remember who gave it to you?" She shakes her head.

Charlotte whispers in her mother's ear. Megan nods and asks, "The part with the Mad Tea Party? No? How about when they play croquet with flamingos? Charlotte nods and runs off to her room.

"She wants to read me a bedtime story before she goes to sleep," Megan beams.

Lisbon says, "She reads to you?"

Megan nods, "Ever since she was little. I can't tell you how many times I've listened to 'Alice in Wonderland.'"

"Before we go, Megan," I say. "Would you describe Tom as a good husband?"

"Tom was not a demonstrative man. I know he loved me but he didn't like any…disquiet in the home," she whispers as if he can hear her.

"You mean you were afraid of him. You mean he brooked no argument?" I sit down on the sofa next to her.

"Something like that. Things went better if you agreed with him and he was so smart, he was usually right anyway."

She was in a weird position. Defending the personality of a serial killer. One who had duped her. And if I'm not mistaken, abused her.

"Megan, what happened when there was…disquiet?" I ask.

"Nothing physical. Ever. But he'd freeze me out. Not speak to me for days at a time. Would speak to Charlotte but not to me. Sometimes he'd leave for a day or a week. And I realize now…" She bites her lip.

"I realize that the times he was angry with me coincided with the times of the killings."


	5. Chapter 5

"Mommy!" Charlotte's piping voice floats in from her bedroom down the hall. Megan excuses herself.

Lisbon says, "Jane, if it's not the money, what is it? Someone in Switzerland who has a grudge against Megan and just wants to make her life miserable?"

I stand and look through Megan's purse. "Or maybe it's someone from the Blake Association, someone the law hasn't found, who thinks Megan knows something."

"Knows what, Jane?" Lisbon gives me a disapproving look as I search the pockets of Megan's jacket.

"Someone who's afraid Megan would be able to identify him or her. Perhaps someone who knows Bertram had a list and assumes Megan has a duplicate.

Lisbon doesn't look excited by any of this. "So this someone who wants the list decides a good way to go about getting it is to send Megan magazine articles and use roses to make smiley faces in the park?"

"Granted, it's not my best work, Lisbon. But my brain is still a tad addled from my time in detention." I open a desk drawer, pull out the Gideon bible and toss it back in.

I meander down the hallway, open the bathroom door and do a quick check of the drawers and the medicine cabinet. I'm smug when I see the bottle of Zeste de Rose on the vanity. I know my perfumes.

I leave the bathroom and head back to Lisbon in the living room. I can hear Charlotte reading to her mother, "The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo." It makes me sad for a lot of reasons.

Lisbon glares at me when I return to the living room.

"Frown not Lisbon. My journey was fruitful."

Now she looks interested.

"Turns out our dear Mrs. McAllister may not have been carrying cocaine to Singapore but she is a stone cold junkie. Her bathroom cabinet boasted Oxycodone, Dilaudid, Lorazepam, Lunesta, Xanax, Klonipin, and Wellbutrin."

Lisbon smirks at me. "Please Jane, from that description, half the population of Austin are drug addicts."

"Really Lisbon? I never figured you for a junkie." I've got Lisbon going now.

"People use medications when they're in pain or can't sleep or are upset. It's called science, Jane. Make friends with it."

Megan comes back.

"Megan," I ask, "are you a drug addict?" Her mouth drops open.

"I take drugs for depression and anxiety. I have trouble sleeping and I have severe back pain sometimes." She's angry. "You can check all my pill bottles-"

"I already checked all your pill bottles," I say.

"Then you've noticed," she says through gritted teeth, "that most of them were prescribed a year ago and most of the pills haven't been used."

"Mommy!" The little voice from the other room.

"For god's sake, Charlotte, be quiet!" she screeches.

I shake Megan's hand. "Thank you, Megan. That's all we need for today. Come along Lisbon."

We beat a hasty retreat out the door.

"Why did you do that Jane? That was cruel." Lisbon's fists are clenched.

"Just wanted to see if there was another side of Megan McAllister. Her noble demeanor, her delicate sensibility, and now, her sharp little teeth."

"Ok Jane, we've established that she feels bad about using the money, that when annoyed by some jerk, she gets mad and even yells at her kid, and that she's not a drug addict." She shakes her head at me. "I'm sure you're about to tell me what it all means."

I put my hand on the small of her back and guide her onto the elevator.

The muzak plays and Lisbon reverts back to her default degree of fierceness.

"Lisbon, you've heard of Esperanza Spaulding, haven't you?"

"Duh. She's only one of the best jazz musicians alive."

"Good. Then you're going to be happy that I finagled us two orchestra seats to her concert tomorrow." I do a ta-da! thing with my hands.

This doesn't have the effect I'd hoped it would. She swallows hard and looks everywhere in the elevator but at me.

She says, "That's so nice, Jane. But I have plans."

I feel like crap.

"I couldn't convince you to break those plans for an old friend, could I?" I switch on the high beams for this.

Why let her off easy? She just mangled my heart with her words.

She looks at me. So miserable, so adorable and so not changing her plans.

"Well, if you do change your mind, I'll leave a ticket for you at the willcall window."

The elevator doors open. I give her a wave and head off to my car.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm draped across my couch early the next morning when I hear the approach of Lisbon's shoes and the sound of wheels.

The dreaded roller bag. Weekend size.

I keep my eyes closed.

Lisbon lifts the bag up off the floor and sneaks it quietly past me. At least she's trying not to rub my face in it.

Who is this romantic escapade with? Thierry or Ahmet or that new swain, Brent?

A roller bag means that this is a guy Lisbon has already had sex with. Lisbon wouldn't go away for the weekend with someone she hadn't yet had sex with. She has her standards.

I desperately want to puke but I have to pretend to be asleep. Maybe I should actually puke while pretending to be asleep. That way, to keep things authentic, I could aspirate the blueberry muffin I just ate and actually die. Then she'll see….what exactly? That I died publicly and unattractively but she still has time to catch her flight?

I had our night at the jazz concert all planned out. I wanted to do something she'd love, then take her to a punitively expensive restaurant, then take a picturesque walk and declare my intentions to love her forever, to die for her, to worship her body and to marry her. In any order she wanted.

But her heart didn't leap when I asked her to come out with me on a Friday night. There was a time when it would have, I believe.

If I haven't mentioned this before, fuck me.

"Lisbon, can we discuss something?" She jumps a little when she hears my voice.

"Sure, Jane." No eye rolling, no exasperated sigh. Completely out of character. Lisbon is a terrible liar. She saunters toward me. Just Miss Cool easing into a conversation with a co-worker. That's right. She bad. She super bad.

She thinks about sitting on the arm of my sofa, but she has birth control in her roller bag and can't bring herself to share my private territory when she's packing six, no twelve condoms. She's guilty as hell about this trip. That's good to know.

"What is it you want to talk about, Jane?" She overshoots the mark going beyond interested to solicitous.

"I thought we should assemble all the information we have about Megan McAllister and see if it provides any clue to who's menacing her." I smile at her.

Now she knows I'm just playing with her. When have I ever asked for her help in analyzing clues?

"Gee Jane. When have you ever asked for my help in analyzing clues?"

"Good one. Lisbon." I answer. No one knows me the way she does. Maybe that's my problem. She's seen my worst and very little of my best.

She leaves to attend a two-hour paper pusher's meeting. Something she wouldn't be caught dead at if she didn't want to get away from me.

Cho's eyes dart to Lisbon and back to me.

"Shut up, Cho," I say. Cho returns to his computer screen.

I spend all day tossing and turning on my couch. Once in a while, I sigh. I am ignored by her. I can't get a decent "what's wrong, Jane?" out of Lisbon.

My phone rings. Megan.

"Mr. Jane…Patrick, something's happened. Please, come quickly."

She's desperate.

"Megan, just sit tight. I'll come right away." I stand and look at Lisbon.

It's ten to five, she studiously avoids eye contact.

She pulls out her compact and pretends to have something in her eye. Guess she wants to leave promptly at five.

I grab my car keys and head out. If Lisbon looks out her window and watches me cross the plaza below (as I know she will) she'll see me walk to my car head held high.

I turn to check if she's watching from her window just in time to see her throw herself and her bag into Thierry's Porsche.

Scrreeech. I swear the bastard tries to clip me on his way out.

I drive to Megan's hotel hoping nothing too dire has happened. I'm not in the mood for dire.

She opens the door dressed in a miniscule blue chiffon halter top with palazzo pants to match. The kind of thing women in old movies refer to as "This old thing? It's just something I threw on to wear around the house." If she's going for sexy (and I think she is), she's there.

Her hair is a tantalizing wanton mess. She's switched from Zeste de Rose to Fleurissimo, an iris-based man destroyer. Intoxicating. This woman is killing me with her choices of perfume. She has yet to stump me there. Let's hope the same is true for whatever new assault on her and her daughter she's about to share.

"Patrick!" She pulls me in the door and kisses me distractedly on the lips. "I found this slipped under the door."

It's a pink "while you were out" slip with a smiley face drawn on it with a red Sharpie.

"I'm so alone. I have no one to protect me, Patrick. Promise me you'll take care of me."

She wraps herself around me like a rubber band and buries her face in the side of my neck. I can feel her tears.

I gently disentangle myself but I keep hold of her hand. She calms down and lets herself be lead to the sofa.

"When did you find this, Megan?" I study it. I'll ask the desk staff and housekeeping about it but I bet no one will be able to shed any light on it.

Megan says, "An hour ago, just before I called you."

She wraps her arms around her own body and rocks back and forth in a self-soothing movement.

"Whoever sent the article and made the smiley face out of roses, now knows you're here, Megan."

She curls up next to me and buries her nose in my hair.

She's a wounded creature. She's being sexual because she thinks that may be a way to get and keep my protection.

This isn't about sex for her, it's about managing her fear. She'll do anything to be protected. Marry a man who controlled every aspect of her life. Even let him ostracize her in her own home in front of her child.

I tell her, "I need some time to think about this note. When I leave, lock all the doors and don't let anyone in."

She kneels on the sofa and puts her hands on my chest. She really is exquisite. She pleads, "Please don't leave now, stay a while longer. Charlotte has been having a difficult time and when she sees me upset, she gets so frightened."

If she wasn't so needy, she'd be irresistible. "Ok, I'll just hang out for an hour or so," I say.

She leans in and kisses me.

"Mommy?"

Charlotte is there with a little tea set on a tray. If she's seen her mother kiss me, her expression doesn't show it.

Megan sits up properly on the sofa and arranges her halter top for maximum modesty.

"Charlotte, darling. You remember Mr. Jane don't you?" Megan says.

"Hello, Mr. Jane. Would you like to have tea with me and Mommy?"

I'm relieved that she showed up. She's a sweet kid and a tea party will help Megan snap out of her ravenous sexpot persona.

"I'd love to, Charlotte." Megan smiles gratefully.

Charlotte arranges the little cups and teapot. Then she runs into her bedroom. She returns with a book, Alice In Wonderland.

She pours us each a cup of tea.

"Would you like me to read to you while you drink your tea?" She's so proper and serious. I make sure not to smile.

"Thank you, Charlotte. That would be lovely." I raise my cup. Megan and I toast her with our tea.

Megan says, "Maybe you should read the part about the Mad Hatter and the Tea Party?"

"I can be completely mad," I say. "Even without a hat."

Charlotte giggles. "I think I'd rather read from another part." She grins at her mother who appears to have calmed down. I'm grateful for that. If not for the little girl, I might not have been able to resist a persistent Megan.

Charlotte solemnly opens the book and smoothes out the pages. Then she puts it down and refills our teacups.

We toast her again and drink it down.

She picks up the book and begins. "A large rose tree stood near the entrance of the garden; the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing and-"

A question pops into my mind. "Excuse me, Charlotte, who's your favorite character in the book? Alice? I mean she looks a lot like you."

A beautiful smile crosses her face. "No Mr. Jane. The Queen of Hearts."

She continues to read. "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a red rose-tree and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know."

She pours more tea for us and picks up the book. "I see! said the Queen who had meanwhile been examining the roses. "Off with their heads!"

Charlotte giggles.

I turn to look at Megan but she's asleep. Charlotte runs over and props a pillow under her mother's head. Then she covers her with the woolen throw.

"Would you like to hear more, Mr. Jane?"

I would like to, I think, but I'm tired. It's been a rough day. My heart is broken. And Charlotte makes terrible tea. And Charlotte's a really good reader and Red John and Charlotte had a special relationship that excluded her mother and I killed Charlotte's father.

And I'm too tired to think any other things.


	7. Chapter 7

Red John is strangling me.

The last face I'll see is his.

I knew it might come to this.

He's angry. I'd expect him to smile. He's having the last word in our long argument.

I hate the carpet in here. Kind of a salt and pepper anything can fall on it and no one will notice color. It's ugly, but it'll look exactly as ugly in ten years. That's the beauty of it.

The ceiling is nice. Crown molding around the edge and two support beams evenly placed. Simple old bronze hanging lamps would work here but some idiot decided to improve the place with recessed lighting.

Little Charlotte is trying to revive me. Dabbing my face with a wet cloth.

I've been asleep. And I can't seem to wake. Can't seem to move either.

I get it. I'm drugged. That would explain a lot.

My wrists are bound to the legs of the breakfront cabinet.

My ankles are bound to the legs of the sofa.

Someone drugged me in order to tie me down.

Little Charlotte brings a dripping wet cloth and wrings it out on my face.

"Charlotte," I sputter. "Get help."

She nods and runs off.

Megan is asleep on the sofa. I study her. Her breathing is shallow. Her skin damp and pale.

"Megan. Megan." She can't hear me.

I begin to go under again.

I hear Charlotte's footsteps.

Charlotte kneels down on my chest.

She puts her thumbs on my throat and pushes with all her might. It's very uncomfortable. Impairs my breathing . But her little six-year old hands can't develop the mechanical advantage needed to do the job.

She's trying to kill me. Red John's baby girl is trying to kill me.

"Charlotte. I'm sorry about your dad."

"No, you're not, Patrick." She grits her little girl teeth.

She certainly has a point there.

"I'm sorry for lying, Charlotte," I say.

She kneels on my throat. An excellent idea but she doesn't have the motor skills to pull it off.

She topples over bruising her temple on the edge of the coffee table. Too bad it's nothing serious.

"Charlotte, you're going to have a real shiner from that. You should put ice on it."

She's out of breath. She pulls herself to her feet and gets ice from the mini-bar. She sits down near me.

"You've done some amazing things, Charlotte. You're a very bright girl. Why don't you tell me how you did it?"

She blooms. Gives me a Cheshire Cat smile. She lies on her stomach, her face resting on her forearms and talks softly into my ear.

"In art class we cut up old magazines to use for collages. That's how I found out my daddy died."

"I'm a much better reader than the other kids in my school. At the seventh grade level, my guidance counselor said. There were words I didn't understand but I read the whole thing. Fourteen pages." She's proud.

"It said what you'd done to him and I decided I would do that to you." She's very matter of fact. Like I should understand and agree.

"Ah yes," I say. "But then you had to be very smart and get to me."

She nods. "I brought the article to my mommy and she got sad and scared. She's always scared. Daddy and I used to make fun of her. Neither of us ever got scared."

"Did your dad ever tell you about the bad things he did?" I ask.

She looks thoughtful. "No. I don't why he would do all those things. It's not true."

"Your mom said your dad went away when he was mad at her. And that's when the killings happened. Maybe he was so mad at her that he took it out on other people. Because he really loved her," I say.

She thinks about this. "That would be better than hurting mommy. He did the right thing."

The drugs are leaving my system enough for me to appreciate just how grim my circumstances are. Got to keep her talking. Maybe Megan will wake and send her to bed without dessert.

"So what happened next, Charlotte?"

"My mom thought some bad person had given me the article to bring to her. She started talking about how someone had to help us. She said we needed someone powerful; more powerful than daddy." She smiles an awful Queen of Hearts smile.

"And you knew your mom would think that person was me?"

"Well, I gave her hints. I pointed out how clever you must be and that police were all crooked." She puts on a gruff adult voice. "Your mother is a child. She listens to anyone who talks in a confident voice." Back to her own voice. "That's what my dad used to say." She giggles. I shiver.

"And the roses?"

"That was just because I like the Queen of Hearts. Those roses were white roses that I spray-painted red. I knew red would scare her more. The next day, she said we were going to Austin to meet you."

She rolls around on the floor hugging herself and giggling. Charmed, I'm sure.

Charlotte gets up and runs out of the room.

She comes back with a serrated butter knife.

Holy shit.

Charlotte says, "Off with their heads."

She kneels on my chest again and traces her finger across my throat.

"Charlotte, stop!"

She begins to saw at my skin under the side of my jaw.

Everything spirals into madness. The pain. The blood. The ragged little chunks of flesh on the knife. The sweet little face so intent on her job.

In the distance, I can hear myself screaming.

Then Cho yanks Charlotte off my chest.

Lisbon takes off her jacket and presses it against the cut.

I hear sirens getting louder.

"Lisbon," I whisper.

"Don't talk, Jane. Help is coming."

She presses the wound and with her other hand, runs her fingers through my hair. She's never touched me before.

The sensation of Lisbon's fingers in my hair relieves all pain. Lisbon's fingers should be a controlled substance.

I float away.


	8. Chapter 8

The ceiling is far away and white. I can just make out the dentil moldings.

Three sides of the room have tall windows with billowing white curtains.

The bed I'm lying in is wide and covered with layers of pale linen. Bottom sheet, top sheet, coverlet, duvet. Square pillows, long pillows, tiny pointless pillows.

My eyes keep drifting shut but my surroundings are so nice, I want to keep looking.

My neck hurts. I flash on images that are less nice.

So I try to sink back to sleep.

That's when I see Lisbon from a distance all in white.

Her hair is up in a bun balanced on top of her head.

Lisbon in tiny white jeans and a tiny white tank top.

Ok. I'm definitely going to fight to be awake now.

She's not wearing a bra.

I must be dead.

Because all the Lisbons of the earthly realm wear bras 24/7.

I watch her pass by with white tulips in a cream ware pitcher.

I notice I'm wearing pajamas. I don't own pajamas.

Lisbon squints at me.

"Jane?" She sits at my side.

"Lisbon. Is it really you?"

"They took you to the hospital and stitched you up. How are you feeling?" She straightens my counterpane and arranges my pillows alphabetically.

I grin.

"With all the drugs in your system, they said they wanted to keep you for a day of bed rest. Then I said I wanted to keep you for a day of bed rest."

"You won?" She nods. "So I'm in your bed, Lisbon?"

"Yeah, you are, Jane."

She fluffs the front of my hair with her fingers.

She smoothes my eyebrows.

"Lisbon?" I take her hand and trace her palm with my thumb.

"Yes, Jane."

"How did I wind up in pajamas?" I'm going for coy here.

"Cho put you in them."

"Oh, for crying out loud." I flip over and bury my head under a pillow.

Cho has got to be stopped.

It hurts to put pressure on that side so I flip back over.

"You must have changed your mind last night, Lisbon."

"Yeah, I was at the airport when I realized I'd rather spend the evening with you."

She fingers the edge of the sheet.

"I picked up my ticket at the box office like you said. When I saw you weren't in your seat, I was terrified."

"Terrified, Lisbon?"

"Because I knew no matter what, you'd be there hoping I'd show up. Knew it in my bones. And when you weren't, it meant you were dead or about to be."

She tears up. "And I remembered you'd gone to see Megan. And we found you with that horrible little monster torturing you. And you and I would never have…."

She stands and folds her arms.

"I'm through, Jane. I can't live like this anymore."

"You're breaking up with me Lisbon? Is that necessary? I mean, Cho and I are on more intimate terms."

"Hush, Jane. It's been twelve years and from what you say, you're still too fragile to move forward."

She goes on. "I've decided the best way to handle whatever the hell's going on with you is to ignore it. I want us to be a couple, Patrick. And I intend to enjoy my fifty percent of couplehood irrespective of what you do."

She laces her fingers through mine.

She continues. "So feel free to behave exactly as you always have. Just understand that what you do will have no bearing on what I do."

What a superb and sensible creature. How bold.

She kisses the unharmed side of my throat.

"And that's it, Lisbon?"

"Yes, Patrick. For as long as I feel like it and not a second more, I will function as if you've told me you love me. She looks at her watch. "Starting now."

She blows on her nails and buffs them on her tank top.

"Lisbon," I say. "Which is your side of the bed?"

She points. I slide over to her side.

"Patrick, what are you doing on my fifty percent?"

"I'm not the mathematician here, Teresa."

tmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmt

So Cho may have put me in the pajamas but he did not take me out of them.

Lisbon and I have become a couple. I love her. She knows it.

I uphold my fifty percent and, as often as she'll let me, invade, occupy and otherwise storm her fifty percent.

Until she's had enough of my attentions and sends me back to my side of the bed.

Little Charlotte is in a cutlery-free facility for budding psychopaths in Switzerland.

Poor lovely Megan has had to survive yet another awful blow.

Cho and she had something going for a while but she was definitely too clingy for him.

She wound up in the muscled arms of Thierry. Lisbon introduced them. He's a smart, powerful, control freak who also happens to be a nice guy.

I've grown quite fond of him since Lisbon dumped him for me.


End file.
